


Future Perfect

by manic_intent



Series: Past, Present, Future [2]
Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, As it seems to be, Clark isn't sure whether he likes the look of his 'real' dad, Kidfic, M/M, Or Dads, Space Husbands, That AU where Jor-El survives Krypton's destruction, and Dru-Zod finally manages to talk him into taking everyone to Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clark is 9 years old, the world as everyone knows it ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Because @beingevil pushed for a kidfic sequel, hah.

I.

When Clark is 9 years old, the world as everyone knows it ends.

He's midway through Mr. Mellere's History class when Principal Nash pops his head into class, red-faced and sweating. Nash and Mellere speak outside the classroom for a moment, then Mellere reluctantly returns, asking Clark with subdued tones to pack his bag. There's a black car waiting outside the school, big and sleek, with tinted windows, and when he sees the man in a suit who gets out of the front passenger seat to open the back passenger door, Mellere actually digs in his heels and starts to mutter a protest. 

Clark stops, worried, but then his Dad gets out of the backseat, and he shuffles over when he's beckoned. "You're gonna to be OK," Dad tells him, but his hand's clammy when it closes over Clark's, as the car starts up. "We're gonna be OK."

"What's going on, Dad?" Clark asks, wary, "Where's Mum?"

"She's fine." His Dad's still wearing his grease-stained overalls from work, and his feet are filthy from the workshop, staining the sleek interior of the car. "She's just helping out with something. Clark," his Dad exhales, and whispers, hushed, "Remember when… remember we always told you how special you were?"

"Yeah?" Clark prompts, doubtfully, but his Dad seems to have lost the rest of his train of thought; he hunches within himself instead, frowning and worried. Clark glances over to the front of the car, at the two men in suits, and back to his Dad. "Who're they?"

"They're from the government-"

"CIA? FBI?" Clark cuts in, boyishly excited for a moment before he hesitates. "We're _really_ not in trouble?"

"No, Clark," his Dad says firmly, but then falls silent, and Clark tries not to squirm as they drive out to Fort Riley, of all places. The military's out in force, nervous, tanks and APCs lining the courtyard, but that's not what pulls Clark's attention like a magnet.

There's a… _spaceship_ , a real, honest-to-God spaceship, its contours roughly triangular, iridescent black, sleek and as large as a small plane, hovering motionlessly above the base. Below it, standing next to a man in combat fatigues, are two men who look as though they've just stepped right out of a Star Trek set. The taller one has a long, old scar over his severe face, his mouth set into a thin, hard line, dressed in some sort of weirdly intricate body armour. The shorter one, a handsome man with thick shoulder-length hair, wears layered, ridged robes that brush the sandy ground, his hands clasped before him; he looks anxious and tired. They both wear helmets, egg-shaped with glass frontages, like astronauts, and everything abruptly adds up, all of a sudden.

He supposes that a part of him had always known, somehow. 

"I'm adopted, aren't I?" Clark asks hesitantly, blinking, and beside him, one of the silent agents grunts, even as his Dad clutches his hand tightly.

The robed man takes a step forward when he sees them, and he goes so pale that for a moment Clark thinks that he's going to faint. He looks shaken, wrecked to his core; he stands mute and silent as they walk closer, his eyes never leaving Clark's face. The other man snaps a cursory glance over him with a slight frown, then turns his narrow-eyed gaze to his Dad, then over to their men-in-suits escort, and at his sides, his hands twitch slightly. 

"Hello," Clark tries, when his Dad shuffles to a stop. To his surprise, the robed man goes down on one knee, bringing him almost to eye level. 

"Hello," the robed man echoes, and there's a faint dissonance to his voice, like the faint edge of a delay, as though his true words are being translated by some invisible device. "My name is Jor-El. And this is my friend, Dru-Zod."

"I'm Clark, and this is my Dad," Clark supplies, and even as his Dad stiffens a little, Jor-El's mouth quirks; there's something unfathomably sad in his eyes, now. "You're an alien, aren't you?"

"Yes," Jor-El agrees quietly, "We are." There's a wryness to his tone that tells Clark that he isn't really just speaking about himself and Dru-Zod. 

"Are you going to take me away?" Clark asks then, softly. "To my…" He trails off. He doesn't want to say _real parents_. As far as he's concerned, his real parents are right here in Kansas. He's known no other life, no deeper love than what he's been shown all the nine years of his life. He doesn't know these two, these aliens and their black spaceship; not the tall man with his cold eyes or Jor-El with his wounded ones. 

To hi surprise, his Dad speaks up. "You're his… you're his father, aren't you?" he asks, and it's the first time that Clark's ever heard his Dad sound so nervous. When Jor-El glances up at him, his Dad fishes in the pocket of his overalls, and holds up a black metal stick. There's an oddly shaped flat seal at the end that looks like a capital 'S', and Clark belatedly recognises the same design, if in a more intricate form, across Jor-El's chest. 

Jor-El doesn't reach out for it. "Yes," he says, and glances back at Clark. "But not where it has mattered." 

"Jor-" Dru-Zod begins, but Jor-El holds up a hand, and Dru-Zod swallows the rest of his words with a snort. Jor-El rises to his feet, all quiet grace.

"Mister Kent," he notes quietly, "Perhaps we should have a word. General Marcus here would like to sit in." 

"What about Clark?" his Dad asks immediately, his hand tightening a little. 

"Clark can wait here, or he can come with us, if you prefer."

His Dad looks over to General Marcus, who shrugs, speaking up for the first time. The General's a broad-shouldered African-American man, with a nose broken one too many times, no medals, and he looks uncomfortable. "My men will watch him," he says finally, though he looks defeated even as he says it. There's not much that his men can do in the face of a spaceship, and the General knows it. Still, it seems to reassure his Dad.

"You stay here, Clark. Be good," his Dad squeezes his hand, and trails after General Marcus and Jor-El towards the main complex building.

Clark stares dubiously over at Dru-Zod, who arches an eyebrow at him. There's no unkindness in his stare, Clark decides, only a keen, disciplined curiosity. "Where did you get that scar?" Clark asks finally, when Dru-Zod doesn't seem inclined to speak.

"Your father gave it to me," Dru-Zod replies dryly, and amusement flashes briefly in his eyes, though it doesn't pull at his sharp mouth.

"It was an accident?"

"No."

Clark wrinkles his nose. "You guys were fighting?"

"Yes."

"I guess he won?"

"In essence, yes."

"Okay." Clark feels a tiny little spark of pride at that, despite having never even known about Jor-El's existence until a few minutes ago. Dru-Zod's poise looks military; he doesn't look soft in the least, while Jor-El strikes Clark as a scholar, a kindly one. "Where's my mother? Is she in the ship?"

Dru-Zod visibly hesitates for a moment, then he sighs. "That is not a story for me to tell."

"Does it have something to do with why it took nine years for you guys to come and find me?"

"Yes." 

Clark mulls this over for a moment. "Do you have a bigger ship?"

"Yes."

"Are there other alien species out there?"

"Yes."

"How many others?"

"You," Dru-Zod frowns at him, "Are indeed your father's son in every respect."

"He's not my Dad," Clark retorts, and Dru-Zod shoots him an unimpressed look.

"Sadly, we cannot choose our parents, child."

"I don't _know_ you people," Clark snaps, just as the implications of Jor-El 'having a word' with his Dad finally sink in; he clenches his fists tightly, "I don't want to go _anywhere_. My home is _here_. I want to go back to class. I want-" he sucks in a deep, gulping breath, as his vision shakes and goes discordant, as the sounds around him roar to a deafening and inextricable jangle; he can see _through_ Dru-Zod, through the tanks, through the buildings to the three men in a square room. 

He's losing control, just as he has many times before, and his Mum isn't anywhere close to him, this time; he clutches at his head, pain shooting through his skull, the air feels too _wrong_ , the world too _light_ -

"Child… _child_ ," Dru-Zod snaps, and there's a hand curled tight on his shoulder. " _Jor, get back here!_ "

Clark takes in a shuddering gasp, then another, shallower one, his nails digging into his throat, then he yelps as big fingers jerk his wrists away, and something heavy settles over his shoulders. It's the helmet, and the glass abruptly seals tight over his face. The air smells wrong as well, chokingly thick, and a distant voice snaps, "Thirty-per-cent atmos sync," even as he reels. 

And then - abruptly - he can breathe right again, his vision and hearing settling back under his control. Clark straights up warily, blinking slowly as he runs his palm up over over the contoured metal sides of the helm, cold under his fingers. Dru-Zod is on one knee, his other hand curled tight over his other thigh, sweating and gritting his teeth, helmetless; his face is drawn in pain as he breathes shallowly through clenched teeth. 

Clark knows what that feels like. Hurriedly, he tries to tug the helmet off his shoulders, but Dru-Zod shakes his head sharply, even as within the helmet, a disembodied female voice asks, "General?" even as Jor-El demands, "Dru? What's happening, Dru? Is Kal - is Kal all right?" 

"Who's Kal?" Clark asks, and there's a sharp intake of breath from the woman, even as Jor-El can be seen running out of the building, faster than what really should be humanly possible, his Dad and the General far behind him. Jor-El stumbles to a halt beside Dru-Zod, darting a glance between them, but Dru-Zod forces himself to his feet and grips Jor-El's wrist when Jor-El tries to take off his own helmet. 

"He hasn't adapted as well as you thought he would," Dru-Zod hisses, and he's still visibly in pain as he leans against Jor-El. "Look at your son, Jor! Breathing in the very _air_ of this Rao-damned planet hurts, and he's been doing it for _years_. We should have come for him _earlier_ ," he spits, as Jor-El flinches at his words. "You should have _trusted me_."

His Dad slows to a halt behind Jor-El, his fists balled for a moment, then he relaxes, looking right at Clark, startled, as though he's never seen Clark before. Clark takes a step forward, and his Dad straightens up, even as Dru-Zod sucks in another pained breath. 

"Dad," Clark mumbles, hesitantly. "I want to go home."

"Oh, Clark," his Dad's face crumples, and even as the General opens his mouth to interject, Jor-El raises a palm.

"This isn't a matter that should be rushed. We'll speak again. For now, I'll be returning General Zod to our ship." He shoots Clark a long, slow glance, then he drops his eyes and turns to Dad. "Thank you, sir. For everything."

1.0.

They spend far too long cosseting the humans, in Dru-Zod's opinion, but Jor-El's been skittish the whole week ever since finally caving and setting course for this distant colony. Dru-Zod may be many things, but he isn't an oathbreaker. This retrieval mission is Jor-El's to run, as they had agreed.

In a way, he supposes that Jor-El has a point. Kal-El is clearly very attached to his human adoptive family, and his adoptive parents seem like honest folk, openly protective, unlike the often venal creatures they had to placate and cajole in order to get this far. It would not be fair to them to simply wrench the child away; just as it's clear that Kal-El has inherited his father's stubbornness and curiosity both - should he be forcibly separated from his human family, it's likely that the child will never forgive them. 

Still, the fact that humans seem to be soft, short-lived and weak is not a good sign: the original, albeit ancient Kryptonian geneseed that spawned them is corrupted nearly out of recognition. It's probably a result of the toxic atmosphere. Rao knows what sort of damage has already been done to the poor child thanks to Jor-El's stubbornness. 

As such, Dru-Zod's a little annoyed to see that Kal-El isn't wearing his helmet, when he walks up the pathway to his human family's home. His human adoptive parents peer worriedly at them both from the doorway to the house, but say nothing other than a few polite pleasantries. Dru-Zod and the boy end up sitting on the ground in the garden at the back of the house, while Kal-El solemnly tries to hand the helmet back to him.

"Keep it." Dru-Zod taps at the side of the spare helmet that he's wearing. "You'll need it."

Kal-El settles the helmet in his lap. "I don't usually have a problem," he confides, looking a little embarrassed. "Only when I'm nervous or upset. I hope you weren't hurt."

"Not permanently." Earth's atmosphere seems to skew the natural Kryptonian biochemical balance; the resultant discordance in his senses had given him a migraine. With time, he could probably have forced himself to control it, given his military training. But Kal-El was a _child_. "Has it always been painful for you?"

"Not so much. Less so." Kal-El eyes him thoughtfully. "The air's different where I was born, wasn't it?"

It doesn't surprise Dru-Zod that Kal-El's questions are perceptive beyond his apparent age. "Yes, it was."

"What about everything else? Is there grass there?" Kal-El pats the short, ankle-high vegetation that's been trimmed over the ground where they're sitting. "Does-"

"Krypton," Dru-Zod supplies.

"Does Krypton look anything like Earth?"

"Perhaps thousands of cycles ago, it did," Dru-Zod shrugs. He's never particularly been interested in pre-evolutionary history and geology.

"What happened to it?" Kal-El asks then, and when Dru-Zod blinks at him in surprise, he adds, "You said 'it was'." 

"Destroyed," Dru-Zod says curtly, and he isn't sure whether he's relieved that after nine cycles, all he feels is a faint ache. "We ran out of natural resources, and mined what we shouldn't have. There was a war. Only a handful of us survived."

"My mother didn't survive?"

"That's-"

"I'm guessing she didn't." Kal-El's stare is keenly steady, "Or she would've come to see me, wouldn't she?" 

Caught out on a direct question, Dru-Zod can only concede, reluctantly, "You were loved, child. She was brave. There isn't a day that goes by that your father doesn't miss her." It's been long enough that acknowledging that doesn't sting anymore. It's hardly logical to envy a ghost, particularly since Lara Lor-Van had long shared Jor-El's heart with Dru-Zod, since long before Dru-Zod had even an inkling of the fact.

"Where's…" Kal-El takes in a breath, then he says, stubbornly, "Where's Jor-El?"

Dru-Zod only bites back his reproach at the last second, and only by remembering that he himself had an hour-long argument with Jor-El over Kal-El just last night. Jor-El has only himself to blame that the child doesn't see him as a father. "Negotiating. I came in his place."

"Negotiating?" Kal-El repeats, a little wide-eyed, "Over me?"

"Not particularly. The human government's quite happy for us to take you off its hands," Dru-Zod says offhandedly. Maybe it's cruel, but he knows he has to drive in this point early. Kal-El might have been playing house with two humans for nine cycles, but he is _not_ human. "But your father thinks that we can trade technology for land and political asylum." 

Trade. Feh. It's beneath them to _trade_ , ideal as Earth's planetary positioning is: with a few climatic tweaks, they can easily resettle this world, with their salvaged world engine. Unsurprisingly, Jor-El's stubbornly resistant to the very idea, and reluctantly, Dru-Zod has to concede that it's not nearly as attractive as it used to be. If anything, diluted as the geneseed has become, it's clear that some elements of humanity still have vaguely Kryptonian traits. Besides, they haven't yet found a working genesis chamber in their travels. 

"So that we can all have spaceships?" Kal-El brightens up. "Explore new worlds?"

Dru-Zod stares at Kal-El with a little surprise. Not even Jor-El has shown very much interest in planet hopping, save to salvage supplies. Why cast out towards deep space and the unknown, when there's so much to do? What was the point? "What for?"

"What for?" Kal-El repeats, frowning at him, a little suspicious, as though he thinks that Dru-Zod is testing him, "Why, to see what's out there!"

"I can tell you what's out there," Dru-Zod drawls. "Vast tracts of empty space. Billions of uninhabitable planets and stars and asteroids. The occasional, usually hostile or xenophobic alien species." The original wave of explorers in the Expansion Age had confirmed that much. 

"But," Kal-El is openly confused now, "Aren't you the least bit curious? This world is so small after all - your arrival's proved that. There's so much that we don't understand. There's so much more that we can look forward to."

An old memory stirs, cycles old, and Dru-Zod shakes his head slowly. Jor-El and his heresies. "If you would aspire to reach the stars, child, you'll have to leave this world that you are so fond of behind." 

As he thought, this makes the boy fall silent, cradling the helmet in his lap. Still, the peace doesn't last long: the boy is Jor-El's get, after all. "So you're all staying? On Earth?"

"Perhaps." The odds are good. Humans have a laughably low tech level, after all: they haven't even yet discovered the perpetual motion engine. They don't even seem to exercise any formal sort of population control. Jor-El had jettisoned his only child deep into the heart of pre-evolutionary primitive barbarism. It's a wonder that the child still seems intelligent. 

"That's good," Kal-El smiles tentatively, clearly relieved, and when Dru-Zod arches an eyebrow at him, he adds, stoutly, "I'm not ready to leave for the stars just yet." 

Dru-Zod finds himself letting out a short laugh, and he pats Kal-El on the shoulder. "Perhaps it's your birthright," he decides, as he lets his hand drop. "After all, you're of the House of El. The blood of Rao himself runs in your veins." 

The child looks suitably impressed and intrigued. At least he's still young enough that he's uncorrupted, and Dru-Zod's a little surprised to find that he's actually enjoying this. He had always taken children for granted, back in Krypton. Now, he thinks that just being able to sit under the yellow sun and talk with this child is quite possibly well worth the price Jor-El had asked from him before they had come to Earth. He may have given his word not to seek the Codex further, but at least there's still some hope for the future.

II.

The spaceship is nowhere as flashy as Star Wars had made interstellar travel appear to be, and Clark has to wear the heavy helmet when he's walking around inside it. The air's difficult to breathe, otherwise.

The other aliens are mostly a quiet sort, save for two - Jax-Ur, a skinny alien with an unsettling not-quite smile, and Faora-Ul, whom Clark decides that he likes. She's a no-nonsense woman… female Kryptonian… clearly second in command to Dru-Zod, and she's the one assigned to keeping an eye on him when Dru-Zod and Jor-El aren't present. 

It's his second trip up to the spaceship, and Clark is patiently trying to persuade Faora-Ul to at least _try_ the Snickers bar that he's bought for her as a present when Jor-El locates them. Faora-Ul takes the foil-wrapped chocolate bar from him between two fingers, clearly only politely, nods at Jor-El, and exits the room. 

It's his favourite room: not huge, like the bridge, or mildly creepy, like the residential quarters. It's been partially modified into some sort of laboratory: there are spare parts, tools and some sort of half-finished machine beached on a workbench soldered to the wall. It's interesting, but what's more fascinating is the view, overlooking the great, vast curve of Earth, set against space. 

"The stars, my destination," Clark murmurs, mostly to himself, as Jor-El sits down beside him, cross-legged. 

"Is that what you would choose?" Jor-El asks; his tone is gentle, with none of Dru-Zod's sardonic amusement.

"Maybe." It's too difficult to explain where he had heard the phrase from; besides, he's vaguely aware that he really shouldn't have tried reading Alfred Bester's novel at his age. "Why not?"

Jor-El actually smiles warmly; there's an odd sort of joy in his eyes, as though Clark's offhand question had validated some sort of soul-deep uncertainty. "'Why not' indeed," he replies, and looks out over Earth. 

"Why did you send me away?" Clark asks then; he's curious now where he had been resentful before - he's a little glad that Jor-El had been so busy with whoever he had been negotiating with until now. 

"Our planet was doomed. Your mother and I sought to save you, at the very least."

"I mean," Clark corrects mulishly, "Why didn't you take me with you? Onto this ship?" 

"At the point in time when you were sent away," Jor-El says quietly, "I was not aware that there was a possibility of escaping the disaster through this ship. The fact that we did in fact do so was a matter of pure chance. Cruel chance, for your mother was not on the ship." 

"And after you escaped, did you come straight to Earth?"

Jor-El turns, to meet his gaze; there's that unfathomable sadness in his eyes again, wrenchingly deep. "No. When I sent you here, I sent something else with you, as well. I sought to protect you by avoiding you."

"But you've gotten rid of your enemies?" Clark asks, and when Jor-El merely smiles wryly, he corrects, slowly, "Dru-Zod's your enemy, isn't he? Or he was. And then you beat him up and now he's on your side."

Jor-El laughs, startled. "Oh, child-" 

A little annoyed, Clark presses, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"In a sense," Jor-El's still obviously amused. "Though I wouldn't repeat that opinion to Dru if I were you."

"He's weird," Clark points out "But he doesn't seem like a bad person. He was going on about my bloodline," Clark elaborates, when Jor-El tilts his head. "That's funny talk."

"Is it?" Jor-El's smile has gone warm again, and Clark likes it that way, he decides. Jor-El looks better without that wounded, tired look to him: he's clearly a gentle soul, deep down, just as his Dad said. A good man - or alien. Person. Thing.

"We all bleed the same," Clark shrugs, and to his surprise, Jor-El looks away, twisting his fingers in his lap, his eyes suddenly bright, as though with unshed tears. 

"If only your mother could be here," he sighs, and Clark doesn't know where the impulse comes from, but he reaches over to press a hand over the ridged fabric of Jor-El's sleeve. After a moment, Jor-El closes a hand over his, his fingers rough and callused, and startlingly warm.

"What did you send here with me?" Clark asks quietly. "Is it in that thing that Dad has in the shed?" 

"Not precisely," Jor-El replies, his tone guarded. "It is better if you do not know. For now, it is not an issue."

"Only for now?"

"Impossible as it is for us to change, I think that Dru-Zod has tried - at least enough for it to count." Jor-El squeezes his hand gently. "And I will never allow any harm to come to you, Kal."

Clark considers correcting Jor-El over his name, but says nothing, looking back over the view. He supposes that he has to admit that he _is_ glad that Jor-El and the others had come for him after all, as much as he's still unsure whether or not he wants to leave his Dad and Mum. 

"Are you guys going to stay here? On Earth?"

"If we can." 

"And if you can't?"

"Then we will go," Jor-El says, without hesitation, and glances at him. "And of course it is my dearest wish that you would choose to come with us. But that, as with all matters, will be a choice for you to make."

2.0.

The genesis chamber in the frozen scoutship is amazingly, miraculously _intact_. Dru-Zod examines the huge glass chamber, watching the servobots drift in their maintenance routes around the pods, following service routines that had to be thousands upon thousands of cycles old.

"It's rather outdated," Jor-El notes, downloading readings from a resident tessebot, "But I think that under Jax-Ur's direction, we will have the means with which to update it."

"Deferring to Jax-Ur? The miracles will never cease," Dru-Zod observes dryly, and Jor-El snorts. 

"He's a repugnant excuse for a Kryptonian, but I recognise that he used to be one of the foremost experts on life-splicing on Krypton." Jor-El's lips quirk, and on impulse, Dru-Zod reaches over to pull him close. The ship life support systems have been online long enough that helmets are unnecessary; Jor-El resists only for a moment before he reluctantly turns away from the tessebot, pressing into Dru-Zod's embrace. He smiles more easily now, Dru-Zod notes, and the pain and loss he wears in his eyes in unguarded moments seems to be lessened.

No, not lessened, Dru-Zod thinks, as Jor-El leans up, the kiss a teasing brush at first until Dru-Zod shifts up a hand to clasp Jor-El's thick mane of hair, kissing him properly, deeply. The great wound that Krypton's destruction and Lara's death had torn in Jor-El is finally healing. It's something to be thankful for, and he kisses Jor-El pliant and dazed before nipping his way down his throat, to the warm pulse in his neck. Jor-El makes a salacious, shuddery, whining sound when he sucks a bite into his skin, and his hands curl tight over Dru-Zod's arms. 

"Dru," he whispers reproachfully, "Jax-Ur is also on the ship. As are half of the others."

"Then perhaps we will have to be restrained," Dru-Zod replies innocently - or at least, as innocently as he can - and Jor-El snorts at him even as he pulls back, with that deliciously sly curl to his mouth even as he sinks - Rao's mercy - to his knees.

It's a sign that Jor-El's thoroughly infected Dru-Zod with his particular brand of heresy by now, that Dru-Zod only contemplates the imminent risk of humiliation and discovery with a sort of guilty thrill. The persteel body armour peels slowly, and they both let out a rough sigh when Jor-El gets enough undone to free his arousal; as before, as always, this act of sexual intercourse is both primitive, reproductively irrelevant and incredibly filthy, but it never fails to make his knees buckle. 

Dru-Zod lets out a harsh moan as he braces himself against Jor-El's broad shoulders and lets Jor-El drink him deep, take him down, his fingers over the rest and groaning as he pushes forward and makes himself gag on Dru-Zod's flesh - Oversoul, but the look of concentration on Jor-El's face, the slick stretched red of his mouth, it's _divine_. 

Jor-El is, as always, very pleased with himself afterwards, when Dru-Zod's gasping and feeling limp, leaning heavily against the hull of the ship, and in revenge, Dru-Zod manages to growl, "You'll have to wait your turn until we have some actual privacy."

"Of course, General," Jor-El drawls, flushed as he is, and Dru-Zod shoves himself away from the hull with a growl, kissing Jor-El roughly at first, then slowly licking a streak of his own fluids from Jor-El's jaw up to his lips, shoving his tongue and his taste into that wicked mouth. 

Thankfully, his self-control holds, and they've composed themselves by the time Jax-Ur happens on them. The life support systems have gotten rid of the scent, though Jax-Ur does still shoot them a faintly suspicious look as he slinks over to check the tessebot with Jor-El. 

Dru-Zod goes back to watching the servobots swimming around the pods, his hands folded behind his back. To think that Krypton's future had sat entombed in ice for so long. Soon, Kal-El might even have company that's closer to his age.

The thought's both pleasing and unsettling at the same time. As yet, they still only have the geneseeds spliced from the colonists that they had found when planet hopping, salvaging what they could from all the inevitably failed colonies. The scientists had been intrigued at the failure rate, for all that the colonists had left Krypton with extremely outdated technology, but it merely cemented Dru-Zod's opinion that for the most part, space was a great and dangerous wasteland. Life existed only through a sheer coincidence of conditions, and finding a habitable planet that could support Kryptonians would be like striking the cosmic lottery. 

Earth is a near perfect prospect, and Jor-El seems to have talked the human governments into ceding them some space in the middle of what the human governments clearly thought was inhospitable space: the ice caps. Their tech wouldn't affect the ambient environment, and a biosphere would go far to regulate the temperature and atmosphere - better yet, an investigation of old ice and scattered ancient tech had led them here, to this ship, south of the 'land' they had been allocated. 

Dru-Zod allows himself briefly to consider the Codex, still hidden somewhere on this planet, and internalises a sigh as he briefly struggles with his exasperation at Jor-El's sheer irrational stubbornness over the subject. It's definitely still somewhere on that farm that Kal-El had grown up in, but he will keep to his word. Perhaps Jor-El will come around. After all, they've already come this far.

They move the ship when the scientists are satisfied that the scoutship is flight-capable and that breaking out of the ice shelf won't cause irreparable damage. Faora-Ul's waiting for them back at base camp, trotting sedately behind Kal-El as the boy scampers up the boarding ramp into the scoutship's hangar with a whoop of excitement, a helmet over his shoulders, bundled up. The child has been adjusting slowly to the Kryptonian atmos, but he still needs a helmet, and he's still jarringly dressed in thick Earth clothes.

Small steps, perhaps. And besides, the boy's unabashed wonder and joy at seeing the ship is infectious - behind Kal-El, a faint smile even flits over Faora-Ul's lips before she comes to attention beside Dru-Zod. 

Jor-El peels off after his son and his million questions, and Dru-Zod nods at Faora-Ul as his Lieutenant surveys the ship. "A working genesis chamber," she notes, once Kal-El and his father have wandered off around the curve of the starboard corridor, allowing Dru-Zod to brief her on the scoutship.

"Yes." 

"The Codex has to be in that farm, sir," Faora-Ul points out mildly. "The humans are friendly to all of us. Extracting the package will not require anything more than-"

"I know," Dru-Zod cuts in, his tone more curt than he intends. "But I gave Jor my word."

"Your word, but not ours."

Dru-Zod glances at Faora-Ul, narrow-eyed, then back at the mouth of the corridor. "A petty point."

"An essential one." Faora-Ul gives him a half shake of her head. "Sir, I understand how important it was to bargain Jor-El into bringing us to this planet. To pick up one of the last of our kind, and a child, at that. But the rest of our species hangs in the balance. You would use the colonists' geneseeds? They're thousands of _cycles_ behind what we have become. They will be Kryptonians only in the barest sense of the word!"

This time, Dru-Zod frowns at her. "Speak your piece, Lieutenant."

"With all due respect," Faora-Ul states stiffly, "Car-Vex and I - all of us - pledged our lives and the allegiance of our Houses to you for a reason, General."

"And I thank you for your trust," Dru-Zod retorts, "Even as I must ask for your patience. Jor-El is essential to the future of our species and must be handled carefully."

"We do not dispute that he is brilliant," Faora-Ul says, without missing a beat, "But we do feel that your regard for him may have compromised your grasp of the larger picture. Sir."

"And what would you do in my place?"

Faora-Ul, surprisingly enough, doesn't back down from the edge in his tone. "Retrieve the Codex. Terraform this planet. Some of the natives have been friendly, but they are a precious few, and the planet is being stripped of its resources just as flagrantly as Krypton consumed its own. In its own way, Earth is heading towards self-destruction as surely as Krypton did. You saw the climatic patterns and readings that the tesseglyphs brought up, when we were surveying the planet. The humans have already begun to affect their own climate, and they haven't yet even invented biosphere tech."

"Which we'll be giving to them, I understand."

"Even so, there are too many of them. Large swathes of their population do not even exist under recognisably stable government. They may have been of our blood once," Faora-Ul's lip twists, "But now they're as primitive as zuurt beasts."

"You raise a viable strategy," Dru-Zod concedes, "And I do see the point of your reasoning. But the core problem remains: we will lose Jor-El. It is not sufficient to look at the larger picture, Lieutenant; one most also look at the long game. It has taken nearly nine cycles for Jor-El to change his mind about his son. I will quite gladly wait another nine cycles for him to change his mind about the Codex. We will never have escaped the Phantom Zone without him, let alone have salvaged so much technology along the way."

"Sir-"

"Had he not been present: or not what he _is_ ," Dru-Zod interrupts, "I would certainly be in favour of terraforming the planet immediately. But a mind like his is a rare thing, earning his loyalty even rarer, and I would have _hoped_ , Lieutenant, that you would have been less ready to disregard someone whose technological advancements, _as much as our geneseed_ , has made modern Krypton what it was. For now, we wait. Understand?"

"Understood, sir." Faora-Ul bows her head. 

"I am not merely looking to help create new Kryptonians," Dru-Zod gestures at the hangar around them. "What is the point of that? Allow them to scrabble in the dirt as we have, or live shipside, on protein cubes? Live in primitive colonial basecamps like those failed ones that we have explored? No. I am looking to recreate _Krypton_. And for that, we need technology. Even if we had the Codex in our hands right now, I would not have instructed Jax-Ur to begin life-splicing until I was certain that we are ready."

"Understood." A little tension leaves Faora-Ul's shoulders, and she salutes before heading back down the ramp and out of the scoutship. 

Dru-Zod watches her go, then he says, dryly, "You can come out now, Jor."

Jor edges out from behind the curve of the corridor. The scoutship's hull is impermeable to their specialised vision, but Dru-Zod has better senses than most. "Dru."

"Where is your son?"

"In the genesis chamber, being watched over by the tessebots." Jor-El comes up beside him, pressing a palm against the small of his back; his smile is warm and soft. "General Dru-Zod, counselling patience. I did not expect this day to come."

"You've forced me to learn it after all this time," Dru-Zod retorts, and he can't help leaning in, brushing a kiss over Jor-El's brow, then lower, over his mouth. They kiss until Jor-El is flushed again, nothing hungry, nothing demanding; they reach for each other like breathing, as though nothing's more natural than this, and that too is a special sort of heresy. Jor-El is a terrible influence.

"Besides," Jor-El says finally, "I have a theory about why the colonies have all failed." 

"Only _one_ theory? The surprises never cease."

Jor-El glowers briefly at him. "The world engines. When they were created, in the Expansion Age, their long term effects weren't studied. I think perhaps that it is impossible to terraform a new planet - at least, not permanently. Not without damaging the planet itself."

"Some of the colonies died of disease. Or predators."

"Yes, exactly. Planets aren't sentient, of course, but they are biospheres within their own right," Jor-El says earnestly. "And they have an… immune system, should we say. Nature always finds a way to strike back: it's self-engineered to try and right the balance. That's why the colonies have all failed, regardless of their tech, regardless of how ideal the conditions were."

"Sounds far-fetched, even for you," Dru-Zod observes, earning himself another glare. "What do you propose?"

"No more world engines." Jor-El glances down the ramp, towards the packed snow and ice beneath the ship; the shipside temp is stable, but Dru-Zod can still feel the edge of a chill. "If we move to a new world, we adapt. Just like the Kryptonians that came to this world adapted. A planetscan indicates that they never used a world engine here."

"Because they were separated from their fleet." The scoutship logs had shown him that much. "They crash-landed here. Survived, somehow. Went native." His lip curls in disgust. 

"And that is why their descendants live on," Jor-El points out, "While all of the other colonies lie in ruin. They adapted. As we must." Dru-Zod grunts in response - he's never particularly considered the possibility - and Jor-El smiles again, wryly, touching his arm. "But thank you, Dru. For what you have done."

"I'll consider your gratitude well-earned," Dru-Zod notes, "If you would pay our shipside armoury the attention that it deserves."

"No more grenades, Dru."

III.

It doesn't take long for trouble to come. They're far enough out in the ice cap that they don't get people camping their proverbial gates, but Clark knows trouble when he sees it. If anything, there's no real reason why he now has to meet his Dad and Mum in Fort Riley instead of at his home.

"Are you guys OK?" he asks his Dad, at the end of one such visit.

"Of course we are." His Dad smiles at him, but he looks tired and worn. His Mum squeezes his hand. 

"So I can go back to school?" Clark asks mildly, and she tenses.

"Oh honey - not right now." She sighs, and brings up her other hand, clasping his hands in hers. "Did you want to go back to school?"

The answer is 'not really' - Clark is learning far more from the shipboard computers and his, well, _biological_ father than he ever could in school - but then again, it isn't as though that's why he had asked the question. "Everything's changed, hasn't it?"

"Not everything," his Dad says firmly. "You're still our son."

"But?"

"But what?"

"There was a 'but' coming," Clark points out patiently. "Could see it."

"But," his Mum agrees, if reluctantly, "It's only right that you get to know your… your other family too, Clark. Give them a chance."

His other family. Clark hasn't exactly thought of Jor-El and the others that way. He supposes in a way that it's true. Except for Jax-Ur, who still rubs him the wrong way, the rest of Dru-Zod's crew have been increasingly approachable. None of them have as much patience for him as Jor-El, but that's probably only to be expected. 

As to Dru-Zod - well. The General's waiting for him in the courtyard, in quiet conversation with General Marcus, and he glances up when Clark hugs his parents, says his goodbyes, and ambles over. On the way back to basecamp, Clark says, "I think next time, I want to stay home for a week."

"Inadvisable," Dru-Zod says curtly, his eyes on the shipboard controls. 

"Why's that?" 

Dru-Zod shoots him a brief, cursory glance, then glances back to the controls. "Growing up, surrounded by human children, were you not different? Singled out, perhaps?"

"Maybe," Clark concedes, cautiously. He's been bullied, but he's small, and seen as too smart for his own good; his grades and reading comprehension far advanced for his age - at least, among 'human children'. 

"Were you hurt?"

"They couldn't hurt me." He had been resentful, at first, and angry, and of course he had been lonely, but he had his books. He had his Dad and his Mum. And he hadn't been the only kid pushed around. 

"Even in Krypton," Dru-Zod notes, "Children are far more sensitive to things that are _different_ than adults. I am not surprised that you were set apart. Nor would I be surprised if you were resented. That is the reason behind our extensive bio-engineering. To eliminate the broad spectrum of variations that would create sociological imperfections. Sociological conflicts."

"So Jor-El and you were just normal kids?" Clark asks, dryly, and this earns him a faint smirk. 

"None of the children of the Pure Lines are 'normal', Kal. But that is part of the point that I am trying to make. You can no longer return to your old life, because you have been very visibly set apart. Should you decide to reside surfaceside for a week, at your old home, certainly you cannot be hurt. But those around you-"

"I'll protect them," Clark cuts in fiercely. "Or the army will." 

"Will they?"

Annoyed at Dru-Zod's cavalier tone, Clark adds, mulishly, "Or Jor-El will. Or you."

Another faint smirk. "Me?"

"I saw the two of you in the hangar," Clark points out as blandly as he can, "And in these here parts, it sure as hell didn't look like you were both just friends." 

Dru-Zod looks so horrified that Clark starts to laugh, even as Dru-Zod says, stiffly, "Kal-"

"It's been nine years since my real mother died, hasn't it?" Clark shrugs. "I never knew her. I barely even know you guys. People move on. It's normal." 

Dru-Zod's expression is still an interesting rictus of horror and embarrassment and surprise, and then he says, finally, "In many ways, you are just as trying on my patience as your father." He does smile a little as he says it, though. It doesn't really soften his face, the way it does with Jor-El, but it's a start. "Do what you like, Kal. But be mindful of the consequences."

Clark thinks this over for most of the trip, but when they clear Canada, he asks, "So everyone in Krypton is the same? Other than the 'Pure Lines'?"

"Regardless of the Lines, we are all bred to have a purpose."

"Nobody has any choice?"

"Nobody _needs_ a choice."

"Sounds boring," Clark decides, with a touch of challenge in his tone, and Dru-Zod snorts. 

"That is perhaps a far more _honest_ response to our millennia-old, vastly advanced social structure than what your father offered as his opinion." 

"Which was?"

"Some flowery words about allowing children the possibility to aspire to greater things," Dru-Zod shrugs. "As though advancement through merit and hard work was not possible."

"But only advancement in the bit of society that they were born to? Nobody could change jobs?" 

"Why should they? Society runs far more efficiently if everyone is born to fit a cog. There's far less discontent. Look at your adoptive world, Kal. Look at the wars that are fought over any number of its failed states. Why, look at the country that your father dropped you in - it averages something around forty murders a _day_. Its government is bankrupt, bloated and in many ways, inept. Is this better?"

"Maybe it's not a question about who is better," Clark mulls this over, "But what everyone can learn from each other."

This time, Dru-Zod actually turns to frown at him. "What _could_ we learn from _humans_?"

"We have something to learn from everything." Dru-Zod starts to shake his head, and Clark grins. "You're going to tell me that I sound just like Jor-El."

"What a remarkable leap of deductive reasoning."

"You see," Clark continues, "Only by constantly learning do you get better at everything. I bet that's why he kicked your butt in that fight."

"You," Dru-Zod growls, "Are an excessively annoying child, and I have no idea why I spent the better part of nine years trying to convince your father to let me meet you face to face."

"Because you actually _do_ like kids," Clark guesses, "While the rest of your friends just look at me like I'm a work in progress."

Dru-Zod eyes him with some surprise, and is silent as he takes the ship in for landing. Jor-El and Car-Vex haven't yet returned from their foray into tedious diplomatic overtures. Dru-Zod turns Clark over to Faora-Ul with a light pat on the back, and wanders off further into the scoutship. 

Outside, bots are still constructing the 'biosphere' over the ice cap, and warm as the scoutship is, the hangar's a little crowded from all the unpacking materials brought down from the mothership. 

"Ready to head back up?" Faora-Ul asks him. 

"Let's go outside," Clark suggests. "I want to see a polar bear."

"Inadvisable," Faora-Ul does, however, glance over her shoulder. "And besides, you'll have to wear persteel, which you have staunchly refused to wear to date. Human clothes are not sufficient for an extended trek."

"That didn't sound like a 'no'," Clark points out, and Faora-Ul's lips twitch very briefly into a smile. Mentally revising his count of the number of Kryptonians who genuinely like children, Clark grins back. 

They discover the small family of a mother polar bear and her cubs by the time Dru-Zod finally realizes that they're missing and freaks out. He finds them sitting on an ice shelf, watching the cubs at play, the mother seated watchfully close. She pays them no attention in the least, even as Dru-Zod growls, "The ambient temp isn't fatal to us adults, but you're still a child, Kal."

"I'm fine." Clark kicks his heels briefly in the air. The persteel armour, scaled to fit, flexes easily and smoothly as he moves. It looks weird over his skin, and he rather misses his jeans and sneakers. "Look at that. What's the point of living out here if you don't come and look at polar bears?" 

"They are just animals," Dru-Zod says indifferently.

"But you've never seen it before, have you? The animals on your homeworld, they're probably really different, aren't they?" At Dru-Zod's shrug, Clark looks back over to the polar bear family. "I've figured out what you're going to have to learn from humanity." 

"And what is that?"

"Life," Clark doesn't have the words for it, not yet, but he thinks that he's close. "Everything _about_ life."

3.0.

Dru-Zod doesn't see the point of this particular diplomatic exercise, and if not for the fact that he can't really see how human dissidents might be able to hurt Jor-El, he would have objected. The security's halfway decent, if primitive, and they're standing on the lawn of what the humans call the White House.

The human 'press' is out in force, although they've stopped trying to ask Kal-El any questions ever since Dru-Zod, Faora-Ul and Car-Vex pointedly closed ranks around the boy. Thankfully, the quiet air of menace that they project seems to have extended its wing over to Kal-El's human adoptive family: none of the press are trying to ask them any questions either, as they settle down in the cordoned area of the grounds. From the stage, Jor-El offers them a smile and a faint wave; beside him is the human commander of the United States, a tall man with dark features in short, graying hair. 'The President', Dru-Zod recalls. That's the title here.

The President begins with a short, wry homily with regards to never having expected to have to handle a First Contact situation alongside terrorism and incipient financial collapse, and then he makes a joke about African-American Presidents in films and asteroids that makes the audience laugh. Bored, Dru-Zod tunes out the speech, watching over the crowds with alert wariness.

Then it's Jor-El's turn, and to Dru-Zod's surprise, he takes off his helmet. 

He's halfway out of his seat before he registers Faora-Ul's firm grip on his arm, and he settles back down reluctantly, even as Jor-El takes in a first, pained breath, then another. When he speaks, his voice is edged only faintly with the agony he has to feel through his lungs, and Jor-El even manages a faint, tight smile.

He begins, as far as Dru-Zod can tell, with a lie. 

"We are not that different," Jor-El says, into the amplification device. "And there is a reason for that. There's a reason why we look physically similar. There's a reason why I sent my only child here, my son, when our homeworld was on the verge of collapse." 

"I am no politician, so I will try to keep this brief. My friends and I come from Krypton. Our society is so technologically advanced that to many of you, our tech must seem impossible. My son recently introduced me to three propositions - known to you as Arthur Clarke's Three Laws. On this point, Clarke notes, 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

"In this regard, I should say that we have not yet reached this measure. In time, I am fully confident that human scientists will be able to understand the principles of Kryptonian science, and I am willing to share our advances with your society." 

The crowd murmurs, but dies down when Jor-El waits, breathing slowly; the metal of the podium has dented under his grip, but he perseveres. "Another of the 'laws' states that 'If a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right.' Unfortunately," Jor-El adds, with a wry smile that gets him a ripple of laughter from the audience, "The governing Council on Krypton was unaware of such a law. Krypton had begun mining its core for energy despite my warnings. It accelerated its end, even with our red sun on the horizon. Our homeworld is no more, and to our knowledge, we are all that remain." 

"Part of that selfsame law adds, however, that should this scientist state that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong. It was my belief," Jor-El glances over to Dru-Zod, "That those of us who were bred and brought up in our heavily restricted, socially engineered Kryptonian society were all mistakes. Irrevocable mistakes. That for us to change was impossible. That there was no real point in _us_ trying to bridge the gap between our worlds, because we could not. It is my belief now that I was indeed wrong. It will be far harder for us than it is for my son, but we can change. We will change."

"For you see, Clarke's last rule is that 'the only way of discovering the limits of what is possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible'. We as Kryptonians have not as yet reached what is possible for us. Neither have you. No doubt you feel that you have far more to learn from us than what we have to learn from you. No doubt you have questions. Perhaps you are even afraid. But what we have to learn from the smallest of your children is beyond question, beyond voice. What we have to relearn that our society has lost is _ambition_."

"Not for power, or wealth. What we have lost is the drive to want to be better. To know more. To _want_ to _learn_. It'll be harder for you to teach this to us than for us to teach you how our tech works. But if you are willing to try, I feel that there is hope, for both of our species. It is, after all," Jor-El taps at the symbol of the House of El over his chest, "What the crest of my House represents. Hope."

"I'll end with another sentiment from your own, which is truer to where we stand now than you would think. We all began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still. We have lingered for long enough on the shores of the cosmic ocean. Together, we are ready at last to set sail for the stars." 

Pretty words, Dru-Zod thinks, but the applause is deafening, and Kal-El bounds over to Jor-El, and to his surprise, jumps into his arms as Jor-El steps off the stage. Jor-El's smile is startled and bright, as he brushes a kiss over his son's forehead and balances him in his arms as he clasps hands with the President and other humans. Kal-El looks proud, with his small arms around his father's neck, and if anything, Dru-Zod decides, that's well worth all the grandstanding. 

"That went well," Jor-El smiles, when he's back with them, sitting down beside him with Kal-El still curled against him.

"Put on your damned helmet," Dru-Zod retorts gruffly. There's warmth settling in his chest, and it takes a moment for him to recognise it as pride. 

Jor-El merely chuckles, and squeezes his hand. "Someday there'll be no need for helmets. Or armour. Or weapons."

"Is that your opinion as an elderly scientist?" Dru-Zod drawls, though he squeezes back, and beside Jor-El, Kal-El laughs out loud and grins at the both of them. 

This can still all go roundly wrong, in Dru-Zod's opinion. And it probably will. But for now, with his feet on alien soil, he thinks that he's willing to take the next day as it comes, just for another moment like this: a child's joy and Jor-El's brilliantly warm smile. It's been nine long cycles, and Dru-Zod has finally understood the meaning of _home_ : that it's not a place, not a doomed planet, but it's everything else that matters, every sentiment that counts. 

Unbelievably, beyond all possibility, he is home, and it's taken all of his life to get here.

"I am glad that you are here," Jor-El whispers, squeezing his hand again, as though he had heard, and briefly tempting as it is to commit heresy in public, Dru-Zod settles for turning his hand and stroking his thumb down Jor-El's inner palm, to press against the life-pulse at his wrist. 

"Even an old soldier can change," Dru-Zod whispers back, and he has, in a way; and it's not the end of it all, merely the start. They are all wanderers. But together, on the shores of the future, they are home.

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur Clarke's Three Laws and Carl Sagan's quote have been slightly modified. We will call it a translator error. ^^;; Similarly, to Clark, 'cycles' translates into 'years'. It's about the same sort of time. 
> 
> If you have any plotbunnies etc to discuss, I can be found on twitter @manic_intent.


End file.
